Spartan, windowless, harshly lit, the interrogation room offered metal chairs and a center table only recently secured to the floor. The walls reflected a yellowy institutional tint. With attitude, Émile Cinq-Mars strode into the room. Mick’s nervousness redoubled. The boy adjusted his spine in reaction to the detective’s angry step.
Entering second, Henri Casgrain presumed his partner’s mood to be a ploy. He took a seat. Cinq-Mars had intimated that the wounds on his head plugged into a strategy; Casgrain was curious to learn how that took shape.
His boss opened on that point, unraveling a connection.
‘The fight, Mick. The brawl in the lane. What was it about?’
‘Told you already. Girls.’
‘You did say that. Italian girls. What were you doing hanging around Italian girls?’
‘Sorry? Have you seen them?’ He came close to making an adolescent, lewd gesture with his palms to indicate breast size, but checked himself. ‘Some kind of good-looking,’ he said.
‘Caught your eye?’
‘These ones, oh yeah. For sure.’
The comment earned a grunt from Cinq-Mars. ‘OK, so you’re checking out Italian girls, and now you’re stealing from Italian merchants. Is stealing supposed to impress the girls? Or were they part of it all along, Mick? Did they induce you to steal?’
‘What? Come on. The girls? That’s ridiculous.’
‘You know you can go to prison for this, right?’
‘For what? Flowers?’
‘You think it makes a difference if you steal flowers? Theft is theft. Henri, isn’t that true in the eyes of the law?’
Henri Casgrain confirmed it with a nod.
‘The law has eyes, Mick.’
The boy’s faint shrug suggested that he thought it would make a difference, that the theft of flowers was a lesser crime than, say, that of automobiles. Cinq-Mars didn’t mention that any number of prosecutors and judges would agree.
‘We’re not talking Boys’ Farm here. You’re too old for the farm. We’re talking Bordeaux Jail or St Vincent de Paul Penitentiary. The worst criminals wind up there, along with handsome boys like you. You’ve heard about those places.’
He had. Terrifying, the stories that filtered down.
Any lingering insouciance dissipated.
‘Then who did?’ Cinq-Mars had learned to ask questions a suspect could not possibly follow. Rattle him that way. Then explain what he’d missed, making him feel a step behind.
‘Who did what?’ Mick asked.
‘Keep up, will you?’
The boy turned both sullen and fearful.
‘Who got you to steal if it wasn’t the girls?’
Not a question he wanted to answer.
A carrot, along with the stick. In time, a suspect would lose track of which was which, or not have a clue what was coming next. ‘I might believe you, Mick, if you told me the girls lured you in. Plus, that might help get your dad off the hook, wouldn’t it?’
‘My dad’s got nothing to do with this.’
‘What about the girls? Do they have something to do with this? Was that how you got involved with Italians? Your background is Russian, Mick. Your friends are Russian, Eastern European. Not a natural fit with Italian crime. Italians don’t normally hire East Europeans to do their grunt work or steal their flowers. So …’
‘So?’
‘What was the fight in the lane about?’
‘I told you.’
‘You lied.’
‘You’re off it. You don’t have anything right.’
‘Only because you’re lying. Either the brawl in the lane happened because Italians were hiring you and other Italians took exception to that fact, or you were getting chummy with Italian girls and other Italians took exception. In one case, you’re working for an Italian gang when you stole the flowers. In the other case, you’re working for an Eastern European-type gang. Possibly directed by your old man. See how this is important? Which was it?’
‘Could be none of those. You’re not thinking straight.’
‘Am I not? That’s possible, after what you did to my head. You might’ve knocked my brain loose. Did you think I’d let you get away with that? I’m bringing in your dad, Mick. What’ll he do? Will he sell you down the river? Not likely. No, he’ll take the blame on himself. He’ll give me what I want as long as I promise to let you off the hook for assaulting an officer, beating my head in. You know that’s true.’
‘He didn’t do nothing. Anyway, I didn’t beat your head in.’
His lament sounded like a whine, a worried frustration, not something he believed. Mick was bright enough that he heard the lack of conviction in his own voice, which brought him closer to tears.
‘He’ll see my head, Mick. So tell me what the fight in the lane was about. You organized a V-shape, or was it a U-shape, to help even the odds. You knew what to do. Who taught you that, Mick? Your dad? Tell me, why did a gang of boys from the next neighborhood think it was OK to fight you on your own turf? What was at stake? Were you supposed to prove yourselves? Show the Italians what you were made of? Tell me that before your dad gets here. Depending on what you say, it might be the only hope he’s got left.’
Mick squirmed, wrestled with whatever knowledge resided within him, knowledge he was unwilling to share. Spinning under the barrage of questions, he was not given time to answer any, which caused him to feel that answers were being created for him.
‘Which was it anyway?’
Keep him confused. He’ll feel concussed without any physical blow.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Pay attention. Your life is at stake here.’
‘OK. I am! Which was what?’
A knock on the door.
‘Was it a V-shape or a U-shape?’
Mick could scarcely believe the question and squirmed around.
Casgrain rose from his chair and went to the door.
‘U, I guess. What does it matter?’
‘What matters is who trained you to do that, on the fly like that. Who, Mick?’
Sullen and silent.
‘I can guess.’
‘My dad had nothing to do with it, I told you.’
A whispering at the door. Casgrain closed it again and told Cinq-Mars that ‘Bogdan Ananyev is here.’
Cinq-Mars saw the boy’s face drain. He stood up then. ‘He’s not here to see you, Mick,’ he let him know. ‘He won’t be talking to you. We’ll be talking to him. That’s how things go now. Everything in life has changed for you.’
‘He didn’t do nothing,’ Mick repeated, a murmur, more a wish and a prayer than a statement of fact.
‘You said that already. Too bad you don’t believe it, eh, Mick? You might’ve made a difference for your dad if you believed in his innocence yourself.’
The detectives left the room. The door locked behind them.
‘Hard,’ Casgrain said.
‘Necessary,’ Cinq-Mars replied. ‘He’s breaking. Needs more time is all.’
‘What line are you taking with the dad? Do you have one?’
Cinq-Mars thought about it, then decided, ‘Crush him. I expect he’s a tougher nut to twist than he’s shown. But he’s got a soft belly, that would be his son. We’ll aim our punches there.’
‘You’re no priest,’ Casgrain commented.
‘Henri, how can you say that,’ Cinq-Mars jibed, ‘when I’m so willing to listen to this guy’s confession?’
Bogdan Ananyev sat behind a table in a room similar to the one where his son was detained, except that the walls reflected a mauve tint. Under the stress of being picked up, handcuffed and brought in for questioning, he possessed a composure that might easily be mistaken for relaxation. Cinq-Mars interpreted his passivity as a form of aggression, well disguised.
‘Mr Ananyev, we’ve introduced ourselves previously.’ The man’s wrists remained cuffed, his hands in front of him.
‘Your names I remember, yes.’
That could be interpreted as a threat, although it could never be formally labeled as such.
‘We have your son in another room.’
In a trice, his composure fell off the rails. ‘Why? He all right? Why Mikhail here?’
‘He resisted arrest, sir. Ran from the police. You’d agree, not an expression of innocence. You’ll notice my bandages – the cuts on my forehead and scalp. Mikhail didn’t put them there directly; still, I blame his actions. A serious crime, resisting arrest. My wounds won’t look good for him in court. I’ll preserve them in pictures. Sir, Mikhail has admitted to the flower heist at the farmers’ market today.’
‘Flower heist?’ the building janitor inquired. ‘What is flower heist?’
‘Come on now,’ Cinq-Mars said.
Ananyev looked from one detective to the other, confused.
‘Your son,’ Cinq-Mars explained, ‘led a pack of young men to the farmers’ market where they stole two truckloads of flowers. That might seem like a minor crime to you. It’s not. The dollar amount makes it a felony. Mr Ananyev, your son has admitted to the crime. He faces prison time.’
The man looked socked. He crumpled inwardly. His body virtually slumped to a reduction in suit size. He no longer sat stiffly or defiantly.
‘Why Mikhail do this?’ His voice sounded faraway. ‘That make no sense.’
‘Mr Ananyev, you attended the get-out-of-jail party for Johnny Bondar. Why?’
The question puzzled rather than alarmed him. ‘I know his mother. She ask me to go.’
Not a bad answer. ‘We’ll check that out, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Johnny Bondar killed a policeman. You attended his party. A gang of thieves invaded your apartment building. One of your tenants has gone missing after a man was murdered in his bedroom closet. Another gang attacked your son’s pack of boys in the lane. Your son stole flowers. In all of this, we have well-organized boys who must be receiving careful direction and training. You’re on the periphery, always. Also, same country of origin as many participants.’
‘Proof of nothing, my country.’
‘Agreed. But we don’t require more proof than what we already possess to send your son to prison. Adult prison, Mr Ananyev. Ours are not exemplary institutions. He will not want to be there. The truth is, I have a conscience. I don’t really want to put him there. If you can help us with more serious crimes, perhaps the theft of flowers will be forgotten. If you give us information on critical matters, the charge of resisting arrest can go away. That one will be difficult for me, due to my head. You need to be very convincing with your information. The fact is, Mr Ananyev, you went to a party to celebrate the release of a man from prison who would soon murder a policeman, as well as another individual. You’re not moving in the best circles. Understand?’
He nodded that he did, although his posture improved. His inner fortitude was returning.
‘I tell you something. Then you release my boy, yes?’
‘If we regard what you say as significant.’
‘I can tell you who do the murder in Mr Willy’s apartment. That is significant, yes?’
Indeed. Cinq-Mars stared him down. Casgrain leaned in, then asked, ‘You know the killer’s identity?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You will tell us that it was Willy. That doesn’t buy you much. Explain why you know that. How you know it.’
‘Not Mr Willy.’
Although surprised, Casgrain remained intent on him. ‘All right. Not Willy. You have an identity? Not somebody in the dark with a mask and a cloak?’
‘I give you his name. You release my son.’
Ananyev shifted his stare from Casgrain over to Cinq-Mars. Their eyes met. Both sides waited for a resolution. Then Cinq-Mars agreed. ‘Deal,’ he said.
‘Me,’ the janitor said.
They waited. Cinq-Mars asked, ‘What does that mean?’
‘I kill the man in Mr Willy’s closet.’
No, Cinq-Mars was thinking. Too easy. It wasn’t you.
Another knot to unravel.
‘Release my son,’ Ananyev said.
‘Let’s talk this through first.’
‘Release him now, or I say nothing. A lawyer I get.’
Cinq-Mars and Casgrain exchanged a look. Casgrain proposed a solution. ‘Your boy is in a locked room. We’ll let him out. He can sit at my desk, in my chair. We’ll tell him to wait there until he can speak to you. After that, he either goes home, depending on what you tell us, or we arrest him. Your choice.’
Ananyev never said yes or no, but a slight bob of his chin indicated his acquiescence. Casgrain left the room to comply with his side of the arrangement. He then came back and resumed his seat. The whole time, Cinq-Mars stared at Ananyev, who never looked up from gazing at the tabletop.
‘All right then,’ Émile Cinq-Mars began. ‘What can you tell me about the slash marks?’
‘Slash …?’
‘Chalk marks outside the back doors of the apartments in your building.’
‘I saw yes. I don’t know about.’
‘You saw them. When did you see the marks? How many were there on each door?’
‘After the robberies, I saw. Two marks. Some places. Other places, no. None.’
‘Always two marks?’
‘Yes. Two. You saw three, four? That was you. Not me.’
Cinq-Mars worked to keep the pace rapid, to deny the janitor time to edit his responses. With his accent, his slowness in English bought him time to think. Cinq-Mars wanted to take it away. His questions did not need to make sense. He needed Ananyev to start spilling words, thoughts, reactions, without coloring them first.
What was the purpose for the marks do you think?
Why mark the doors?
What do you know about the cameras?
Do you possess a master key to the apartments?
How do you think the marks were connected to the robberies?
Do you know about the rubber band in Willy’s apartment?
The man fumbled his responses. He maintained innocence with respect to the robberies, admitting only to murder. ‘What rubber band?’ he asked.
‘We’ll get to that.’
‘When?’
‘When I’m ready.’
‘When will that be? I murder somebody. An intruder. I not know about robberies.’
‘Come on.’
‘What do you mean come on? I am the killer. What rubber band?’
‘You know nothing about the robberies?’
‘Nothing I know.’
‘How many apartments were robbed? Seventeen? You knew nothing?’
‘They were quiet. I was sleep—’
He caught himself far too late.
‘You see the problem, Mr Ananyev. You weren’t sleeping. You were upstairs killing a man. So either you were not upstairs killing a man, and instead you were asleep and know nothing about the robberies, or you were committing a murder, in which case it follows that you were also aware of the robberies. A phrase in English: you can’t have it both ways.’
Ananyev followed the line of his logic. ‘I know about robberies,’ he admitted, reversing his position.
‘Maybe so. That answer lets you be the killer. Still, you have two strikes against your believability. Unless you want to tell me about the slash marks.’
For a change, Cinq-Mars gave him a moment to think about his response. Then Ananyev said, ‘Me. I mark apartments.’
‘Of course you did. How did you mark them?’
‘You know.’
‘Tell me, please, sir. For the record.’
‘Two slashes. Yellow chalk.’
‘Two. Never one, never three.’
A hesitation. Still, he said, ‘Two.’
A knock on the door. Casgrain got up and answered, listened to a whisper, then indicated that he’d be gone a moment.
The janitor had a question of his own. ‘You said two strikes. What is other strike, please?’
‘Two strikes against your believability. The chalk marks are strike one. Originally there was one chalk mark per door. Later, two.’
Cinq-Mars saw another strike whizz past the man. He had reacted to the mention of one slash mark, surprised that Cinq-Mars knew that. At this stage, why had he hidden that benign detail? It struck the detective as odd.
‘The other challenge to your believability, sir, is that you would so easily cop to a murder for which you were not a suspect. Maybe down the road, if you’re guilty and your son is still in trouble, you might do that. But not so soon, so easily. It makes it hard to believe you. That is strike two with your story so far, Mr Ananyev.’
‘It is my conscience. I confess. I kill this man.’
‘Then let’s talk about it. See if you can convince me. I warn you, I’m skeptical. I’ll be extra hard on you and on your son if you lie to me.’
Cinq-Mars stopped when Casgrain returned. He waited for his partner to seat himself again, but he didn’t. Casgrain put a hand on Cinq-Mars’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, ‘Touton on the phone. Your desk. Take it now.’ He was beginning to know the man, so added, ‘Don’t argue for once.’
Cinq-Mars left.
Casgrain sat again and played with his watch. He took his time – as though the watch indicated how long – before he looked up at their suspect. ‘The way it started out, I expected a routine day. It’s been full of surprises. No matter what, I’m going home at the end of my shift. Doesn’t matter what you say here.’
The janitor spread out his palms to the limit the handcuffs permitted, an indication that he had no clue what the man was talking about. Casgrain kept to himself that a sharp change to the course of their conversation was about to occur.
Cinq-Mars returned. He took his jacket off and slung it over the back of his chair. Sat down. He pushed his chair away from the table and let his posture slump into it, slouching his spine, spreading his legs out ahead of him to either side. He placed an elbow on the chair’s armrest, a hand on his forehead. Thinking, yet in an attitude that portended that he could not think coherently anymore. As though he was bracing himself for what he’d already learned.
He finally looked at Casgrain and shook his head. Then sat up straight again, moved closer to the table and rested his forearms on it. He said, ‘I talked to a friend of mine.’
The janitor waited.
‘Fortunately for you, or unfortunately as the case may be, my friend has friends. As do you, Mr Ananyev. You have friends.’
The man was baffled.
‘Would you like to tell us about your friends, Mr Ananyev?’
‘Friends in gangs, you mean? You think I am a leader of gangs of boys. I am not. But I know such men. I not deny.’
‘You’ll not deny,’ Cinq-Mars repeated. ‘I didn’t mean those friends. Perhaps you have friends who are worth having as friends.’
Both Casgrain and Ananyev waited for an explanation.
Cinq-Mars spoke again. ‘It’s your friends in the CIA that we should talk about, sir. They say you’re one of theirs. They say you’re one of the good guys and we should treat you as such. I wonder, sir, if we can now talk more plainly than before?’
Perhaps they could; perhaps not. Ananyev mulled over this reversal to the direction of their talk. He had been treated as an adversarial material witness. Abruptly, he was considered an ally. He was looking for a way back into their talk, or alternatively, for a way out.
After a spell, he said, ‘This is a world we live in, Detective.’
The declaration was unexpected, one that invited a philosophical discussion, rather than a talk about their difficult straits. Cinq-Mars stood and leaned over the table. He took a key out of his pants pocket. He released Ananyev from the handcuffs, then sat back down again. The man rubbed his wrists.
‘Do you know, Detective Cinq-Mars, story of young man in room built for coal? Maybe you know this story. Maybe not.’
‘The world,’ Cinq-Mars remarked, ‘is the world we live in, Mr Ananyev.’ Equally obtuse. Then he said, ‘He had to cover his face with coal dust before a light was turned on. Then he faced the other man in the room.’
Bogdan Ananyev was nodding as a cow might chew its cud, deliberately, compulsively, and without conscious awareness. In whatever labyrinthine corridor his mind wandered, it eventually brought him back to their present room and immediate concerns. They could tell when he was ready to speak again, as the intensity of his nodding wound down.
‘One slash mark I put.’
‘Only one,’ Cinq-Mars said.
‘Mr Willy, he said make it two.’
‘Why two? One was visible enough, to indicate the apartments with deadbolts.’
‘A signal. Not to criminals. To investigators. Maybe, Mr Willy said, somebody might see. Trust the man who sees, he told me. If nobody sees, don’t worry about it. But a man who sees will know about him. Trust that man, in case.’
‘In case?’ Casgrain butted in.
‘In case Mr Willy is dead. He did not say that. He meant that.’
‘Mr Ananyev,’ Cinq-Mars inquired, ‘why, initially, didn’t you say that you made just one mark? Why say two?’
‘Mr Willy told me to make two marks after I make one. How do I explain that without I mention Mr Willy?’
‘Who killed the intruder?’
‘Me. Mr Willy help. I did not want to say that to you. I warn him they were coming. He open closet door. I swing my knife.’
‘Did you know the dead guy is ex-KGB?’
‘He is?’
‘He was.’
Ananyev grimaced. ‘No “ex”. If he was ex-KGB, he was KGB when I killed him. Still is KGB, even dead. They used to send smarter killers. We were a big surprise to him. He did not expect that. He did not know we know he was coming.’
‘How did you know?’
‘They found me. These kind of KGB Russians, the ones in the world now to make big bucks. I was gone from them a long time. I don’t know how they find me. Boys in neighborhood maybe. Johnny Bondar, like him. They help bad people find who lives in the neighborhood. The Russians, the Ukrainians, the Poles. They check everybody. When somebody cannot be figured out, they look closer. Find out who really he is. Who he was in old country. They find out about me. Soviet engineer. I helped Americans. A reason for that. I say nothing more. I got out with my son. My wife had a way out, too. KGB, they caught her when she leaves. She is disappeared. They told to me, “We have your wife. In gulag. You do this for us, maybe she not die this week.” I don’t know if she is alive or dead. I had to protect my son. My wife and me, we agreed on that, firm, to get out with Mikhail, no matter what. I tell to Mr Willy my story and we plan.’
‘Sounds as though they wanted you dead. Why did they want Willy dead?’
‘They did not. I don’t think so. Mr Willy is not sure. These Russians want to take Italian business. The drugs, the protection, the prostitution. Everything. Mr Willy is aware. Mr Willy knows how everything is working. Nobody wants him dead. We discuss. They want him alive. He is hard to kill but not why you think. They came here, I think – Mr Willy also believe it is possible, but he is not sure – they came not to kill him. To take him. Make it look like he is a criminal who steals from neighbors. Steals their toasters. Petty criminal. That way, everybody thinks he ran away. That he runs. Nobody thinks he is prisoner. As a prisoner he say to these KGB Russians everything he know about how Italians’ Mafia work their business.’
‘And he would tell them everything, why?’
The question seemed nonsensical to Mr Ananyev. ‘They torture him, he talk. The Italians, Mr Willy said to me, train biker gangs. The Russians want to stop that. They need that knowledge for themselves, not for bikers. Mr Willy, he has that knowledge.’
Cinq-Mars thought it strange, as their talk went along, that he seemed to be conversing with an old companion, someone with whom he’d traveled through decades.
‘What was the purpose in robbing toasters?’
‘Also wallets. Don’t forget that.’
‘True. Wallets and purses. And radios.’
His wrists uncuffed, Ananyev sat with his hands folded together except to raise them, still clasped, to scratch an itchy eyebrow.
‘They want people think Mr Willy is a bad man. Also, they recruit,’ he answered. ‘These Russians. They look for talent. Not everybody who steals is a thief. You know, in the heart. A black heart you can find. But a black heart who will do what he is told, loyal, smart, that is hard to find. I make sure my son, Mikhail, is not reliable to them. LSD he took. That night. Gangs don’t like that. Neither I don’t like it. But that night, he had permission. I don’t want them to like him. They liked Johnny Bondar. Look at him now.’
‘Do you know who Willy is to us, Mr Ananyev?’
‘He told to me, yes.’
‘He related the story of the coal bin. He must have trusted you to tell you that story.’
The Russian’s smile was not a typical reaction, Cinq-Mars suspected, therefore genuine.
‘At first, no. Long story. Short story is, at first, he was very suspicious of me. I suspicious of him, too. Like you do, we investigate each other. Find out the other one not our enemy. Both of us, our situation we live, very glad to have a friend to trust.’
‘May I ask,’ Cinq-Mars requested, disengaging from the cop–suspect aspect to their conversation, ‘why you were at the Bondar party?’
‘To see who show up.’
‘Who showed up?’
‘Two dirty cops. You want their names?’
‘I know their names. Mr Ananyev. We want to bring Willy in. Do you understand what I mean? To take him out of the battle he’s in and return him to regular life. We also want his knowledge, as other people do. Do you know where he is?’
‘This I do not know. It is possible Mr Willy does not know.’
‘Do you know what he’s doing? Surely, at this point, he’s been compromised. People want him dead or held captive.’
‘What he is doing I can tell you. There is one hope, he believes. He leaves you out, the police. The law, he leaves out.’
‘He has his own solution?’
‘The world we live in. I tell to you, these are his words.’
‘I see. What’s his plan, Mr Ananyev?’
‘It is a fool’s plan, Detective Cinq-Mars. He wants to talk to these Russians, the bikers, the Mafia, and he wants each gang to trust him. You ask me where he is. Dead by now, I think. I fear for him. Always how it was with us. I give my advice to him because he is more foolish than a man who knows better. I am afraid for him. But. That’s him. That’s Mr Willy.’
‘And the plan is?’
‘The plan is each gang goes to war against other gangs and nobody knows who is a friend, who is the enemy. Who wins, that gang will be weaker than before. And then, only then, the police go in, pick up pieces. Not my plan. His. Mr Willy’s.’
‘He wants the gangs to kill each other off? That’s his solution after all these years?’
‘He say no choice. No more does he believe in the law. Not Mr Willy.’
‘What are his chances, do you think?’
‘To survive for him? Very slim.’
‘I meant, to start this gang war?’
Ananyev thought about it. Said, ‘If he’s alive, he might start it. Don’t ask me who finish it. He believes the Mafia survive, do only unions and construction after that, import–export business, mostly drugs. The Russians he wants defeated. He is afraid of them the most. The bikers will grow stronger. That will not be good, but they will finish weaker. They are not ready to take control without they fail. He wants to slow them down. His plan, will it work? To answer, I must know, is he alive or dead?’
Cinq-Mars sat back. More to unravel, more to comprehend, more to weigh and evaluate. A man on the loose with the power to implement a monstrous, murderous idea was dangerous. All-out warfare among gangs might seem beneficial from a singular viewpoint, but chaos and wickedness set loose in the midst of a law-abiding population was never wise. The progress of any gang war was unforeseeable and predictions of its final result dubious.
‘Why, Mr Ananyev,’ he asked, ‘did you admit to killing the KGB agent so quickly? I know you want to help Mick, but that seems drastic – very foolish – to me.’
Ananyev pinched his shoulders forward, then apart. ‘To help Mikhail, yes? Also, I thought, I help Mr Willy. If people think he not the man who did the murder, but only me, a crazy janitor, maybe he be safer. In his world. A good lawyer gets me off later.’
For a moment, Cinq-Mars entertained a nutty thought out of nowhere, that pinning the tail on a donkey could sometimes be a tricky maneuver. Especially if the donkey turned out to be a different sort of animal. Try pinning the tail on a lynx in the wild.
‘Was it true? Did you kill the foreign agent?’
‘This time, my mouth I keep shut.’
That seemed wise. ‘Why does he do it, do you think?’ Cinq-Mars asked the janitor, the former engineer. ‘We call him Coalface. How does a man darken his soul and go into the life knowing he’s underground for decades? Who takes that on, and why? Why did you do whatever it is you did, Mr Ananyev?’
Briefly, they returned each other’s sharp glance. Ananyev’s response was unsuspected and cut through to the quick.
‘Why do you?’ he asked.
The remark made Henri Casgrain smile.
The room filled with silence for extended moments. Perhaps they were all asking the same question of themselves.
‘My son,’ Ananyev put to him.
The man had more than lived up to his end of the bargain. Cinq-Mars tacked on a stipulation anyway. ‘I expect a full apology for my head wounds, and for running away as he did. I wasn’t dressed for that chase. Please find out from him who was behind the flower heist. I want the merchants to realize that the Mafia could not protect them, but that the police helped. After, he walks. Of course, you both do.’
Bogdan Ananyev found the proposal equitable, and took on a stern, paternal expression as Casgrain stepped out of the room to fetch Mikhail. The boy stole flowers for one mob or another. He should never have done that. Time to own up to it and come clean.